


Après Un Rêve

by Chokopoppo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, F/F, Guilt, Infidelity, Prostitution, Smoking, Vaginal Fingering, but flipped I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 00:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7913374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokopoppo/pseuds/Chokopoppo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Eleven years her junior. Eliza’s eyes flicker away in that old, familiar discomfort. She will feel guilty, and tell herself not to do this, and then she will do it again, anyway, because Maria wants her and Maria is beautiful and Maria does not know any better.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Après Un Rêve

**Author's Note:**

> Lesbians! Lesbians. You'd think I'd write about lesbians more, since I am one. Started reading The Price Of Salt, got inspired, wrote sad lesbians having problems. Sorry, guys. I'll write happy lesbians next time.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://www.chokopoppo.tumblr.com) if you need to kinkshame somebody.

“Do you love him?”

“No,” Maria says, blows out a stream of smoke. She didn’t even hesitate, Eliza thinks.

“How can you be sure?”

She shrugs, taps ash off the end of her cigarette. “How d’you know you love your husband?” She is very, very beautiful, Eliza thinks. Worn down like a child’s favorite rock, eyes settled deep into their sockets, painfully beautiful. Her shirt is cut too low. She’s adorned with cheap jewelry, cheaper perfume, unpleasantly bright red lipstick and dollar store eyeshadow, hair a mess and slick and greased with temporary homelessness and sweat and melting snow under the hat Eliza gave her. “Besides, why’s it matter? Love ‘im or not, that’s what there is.”

Eliza is quiet. She leans against the brick and mortar wall and shoves her hands in her pockets to hide them from the cold. The snow is unpleasant, flurrying directly into her face. Two questions hide in her mouth - she can only ask one of them. Either _why don’t you leave him, then,_ or “why do you think I love my husband?”

“You wouldn’t come to me if you didn’t love him,” Maria says, not looking at Eliza.

“Maybe I love you.”

“Maybe. But you don’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Your favorite question tonight,” Maria says, and she laughs. Eliza doesn’t. “You only come to find me when he’s gone, or late. You miss him. You don’t miss sex, it’s not about getting touched, you’re beautiful, you could get that anywhere. He does that for you.”

Eliza doesn’t follow the logic, and refuses to try. “How old are you?” She asks, just like she asks every time she sees Maria. The answer is always the same, a way to try and guilt herself out of her actions before she takes them, but it never works.

“Twenty-three.” Eleven years her junior. Eliza’s eyes flicker away in that old, familiar discomfort. She will feel guilty, and tell herself not to do this, and then she will do it again, anyway, because Maria wants her and Maria is beautiful and Maria does not know any better.

She ought to tell Maria to leave him, to come stay in her house with her and her husband and her children. A refuge in audacity, a question Alexander would never think to ask because he trusts her the way she trusted him, once. Instead, she asks “will he be home?” Watches Maria smile, crush her cigarette out on her arm unflinchingly.

“Nah, he’s gone again. Good riddance. Least he knows to call ‘fore he comes home.” There’s lipstick on her teeth - she must have put it on in a hurry when Eliza called. Her eyeshadow is unblended, green, so entirely not her color. God, she is beautiful, Eliza thinks, and hates herself for it but thinks it anyway. “You want coffee?”

“I don’t have much time,” Eliza says, follows Maria through the snow through the very familiar path to the same ugly apartment building it always is, “I think I just want you.”

Maria looks pleased with herself, but says nothing.

The apartment is ugly, and dirty, and small, and it is not Maria’s. It belongs to James, she told Eliza once, and he lets her stay there as long as she follows his rules and splits the fee from any clients she brings back with her. He thinks he knows when she’s lying about clients because he looks for stains, or changed sheets - as though there weren’t ways to hide those things, she had scoffed. Stupid as _well_ as unemployed, ugly, and cruel. Eliza had panicked, apologized a million times, told Maria she had no money and anyway disapproved of the practice as a whole, but she had been invited to the bedroom anyway. She has never been a client, not officially, though she leaves little gifts from a mother’s concern.

These days, Eliza handles Maria with a certain delicate urgency, darkly aware that every time she comes here, her time is more limited, and one day she won’t be able to have her at all. Once the door is shut, and coats have been peeled off and hung up, she tangles her fingers in Maria’s beautiful dark hair, kisses her as deep and as hard as she dares. Presses her back into the kitchen counter, strokes her fingers down from Maria’s neck to that infuriatingly low shirt. “You’re cold,” she whispers as their mouths part, “I wish you would wear a sweater, or at least do your coat up in front. I don’t want you to get sick.”

Maria is not listening to a concerned mother’s platitudes. Maria is fisting her hands in Eliza’s properly starched business collar and jerking on it thoughtlessly, whispering “yeah, yeah, okay, c’mon though,” kissing wet red marks up Eliza’s jaw and cheekbones. She never nips at the skin - never does anything that might leave a bruise, knows the danger inherent in such behavior - but sometimes when she gets hungry she licks, all the way from Eliza’s neck to her ear. She does so now, bites thoughtlessly over her earrings in response to the groan, the weight of a body now leaning on her, dependent on support. “C’mon, come take care of me,” she whispers, hushed and needy, breathing messily into her. She grabs nervous, doubtful wrists that tremble on her shoulders, tug them down over her breasts, gasps “ _please,_ ” watches Eliza shudder all at once.

“Maria,” Eliza whispers back, runs her fingers the familiar linings of underwire and lace through the thin shirt’s fabric, “you’re so good to me like this.” She does not add that Maria deserves so much better, even though this is true. Instead, she runs dry, flat palms over her shoulders and down the back of her shirt, unclasps the back of her bra, watches with hazy eyes as its tugged out and chucked across the apartment by its bearer. “You know you’re so beautiful, drive me so crazy,” she says, rubs her fingers hungrily over the fabric, feels her nipples harden. It would be easy to tear her shirt off, strip her bare just over the threshold of her boyfriend’s home, but that’s not what either of them wants - instead, Eliza draws patterns almost lazily over rising skin, ignores the gasps and moans even as Maria’s hips start to roll evenly in a desperate, valiant attempt to get friction off the crotch of her own jeans. “So good, so much better, make me want you so bad.”

“Please, Liz, just - “ Maria moans, throaty, tips her head back to expose her neck and Eliza kisses at it hungrily, smears lipstick all over warm, smooth skin. “Please, mama - so good, so good, c’mon, touch - touch me, want you so bad.”

“Do you talk to the little boys you bring back here like this?” Eliza bites softly into the skin under Maria’s ear.

“No, no no _please,_ only talk to you like this, only want you to take me,” she gasps, delirious, “please, want your fingers, want you fucking me, making me feel so good, always make me feel so good, mama, please.”

“I’ve barely touched you at all.” She dips cool fingers just below the cheap belt at Maria’s waist, half a test and half a taunt, feels her buck up in a heady jerk. “So excited. Isn’t there anyone to take care of you right?”

“Nobody like you, never feels good if it’s not you - kiss me, kiss me again,” she begs, and Eliza does, licks into her mouth, presses her body into Maria’s possessively, feels desperate arms wrap around her for leverage. Slides her hands over wide, sloping hips and up under the hem of her shirt as she whines into the kiss.

“Bed,” Eliza says, when they part again, and Maria groans, nods vigorous assent.

Undressing ought to be sexy, but Eliza has always just seen it as a pain, and she gets all of it out of the way at once before she can focus her full attention on her partner. When she turns her gaze back to Maria, she finds the girl staring at her, fingers working uselessly at the hard denim seams of her crotch, searching for a sensation she isn’t going to find. She feels the same flush as the first night they met. “Oh, stop,” she says, brushes hair out of her face. The apartment is cold - frigid, in fact. She’s getting the sneaking suspicion, between her tightening skin and the heavy blankets she hurriedly crawls between, that someone didn’t have the money to pay for heating. 

“So hard to stop when it’s you,” Maria breathes, but does - she strips down in turn and crawls into bed with Eliza, kisses her fervently. “So beautiful, want to keep you here forever, you know? So kind, so fucking gorgeous - “

“I am not and have never been - “ Eliza starts, then gives up - half because there’s no point when it comes to Maria, not really, and half because those soft, wet lips kiss against her breasts, suck softly and then harder, much harder, tongue flicking rapidly over sensitive skin and Eliza gasps, keens, jerks at Maria’s hair thoughtlessly. It’s so hot, so _good,_ like electricity coursing through her body, that she almost doesn’t feel knees on either side of her leg, almost doesn’t feel Maria grinding wetly against her skin. Almost.

She knows what Maria needs. She has never been able to say no to her.

Two fingers, saliva-slicked, stroking gently over her cunt. Maria pushes herself slightly off Eliza’s leg, breathing hard, watching her intently. Eliza wriggles her fingers experimentally - slowly pushes one, then the other, deeper inside, wriggling and curling and searching. Maria whimpers, presses her hips back down into Eliza’s hand until she relents, brushes her thumb softly over her clit. “You want something, baby?” Eliza murmurs, watches Maria hazily above her. She is so beautiful, sweating and heaving and moaning softly with every little exhale and sigh, makeup streaked, thick blanket sliding down from its place around her shoulders to her waist as she sits higher and higher on Eliza’s fingers.

“Want you,” she whispers back, and Eliza swirls her thumb, fast and rough and exactly how her girl likes it, as a little prize, listens to her voice break over a moan as she tries to fuck herself on those fingers again.

“What else you want? Tell mama,” she asks in a moment of indulgence - feels Maria flutter and tighten around her at the word.

“Nothin’ else, just you, just you, _please,_ ” she gasps, and Eliza pistons her fingers twice into her as she hears what she wants twice. Below Maria, she spreads her legs wide to stop herself from coming the second her girl catches on. “Just you, want you, want you fucking me so good, please please _please_ , don’t stop I need you I _need_ you Lizzy, fucking me just right, just there - “

Her tempo spasms, falls away from the speed of Maria’s words, goes on faster and harder - thumb rubbing mindless circles, fingers massaging whatever they can curl into. Her unoccupied hand grips Maria’s hip to keep her fingers from flying to her own pussy, trying to bring herself off to the sight of Maria losing her mind, rubbing mindlessly at her tits with one hand and twisting in Eliza’s hair with the other. “So good, so beautiful, so lovely, all mine,” she hisses, “mine, mine, you’re mine, Maria, mine, baby girl, my sweet little baby doll, gonna come just right for mama, isn’t that right?” And Maria _wails,_ gasps, pleads begs _oh yes mama gonna come so good for you gonna come just right, gonna -_

“Eliza,” she whispers, and shudders and falls apart all around her. Eliza’s fingers work her through it, then pull out, stroking apologetically.

There’s a long silence where Maria sinks down, sweating, shaking as Eliza’s hands run over her back. “Fuck,” she breathes, shaking, “watching you gets me so wet. Shit, Maria.”

“I can fix that,” Maria replies, grins, and kisses her way down Eliza’s stomach.

~~

Maria’s arms are warm around her, even now that the heat has been let out of the air by the trials of time and soft conversation. Eliza has left her arms above the blankets, a reminder of the room’s chill for her inevitable departure, while Maria has squeezed up close to her for body heat, tucked sheets and comforters up under her chin. Her fingers peek out from under the covers, trace circles around Eliza’s sharp, jutting collarbones. For her own part, Eliza cannot bear to look at her - she always looks so young like this, so vulnerable, and she stares up at Eliza with the softest eyes.

“How old is your son now?” Maria asks.

“He’s nine.”

“Tell me what he likes to do.”

Eliza tells her, almost on autopilot - Philip loves to play the piano, she taught him herself. He’s taking French classes, real ones to really teach him, not just shoddy extracurriculars run by parent volunteers desperately trying their best. He’s so smart - he’s so good with math and big numbers, even though he hates math itself and complains about it constantly, he’s reading long books, making his way through the Harry Potter books under his father’s guidance. He idolizes his father so much. Wants to be just like his daddy when he grows up. And they get time together, Alexander always makes time for Philip and Angelica and Alex and James.

Maria strokes a warm hand down her side. “Sometimes I like to pretend I’m part of your life,” she says, flat like it’s not important, “a part that matters, anyway. Like I could see your house. Meet your kids.” Her hair is frizzing around her head. Eliza strokes it down thoughtlessly, watches her lean into the touch like a cat. “When James is here. It helps, thinkin’ that when it’s all over, I’m going home to see you after.”

It is quiet for a long time. The room is dark with the sound of breathing.

“I have to go,” Eliza says at last, crawls out of bed, collects her clothing from off the floor. It’s nearly midnight. She should already be on her way home - she’ll blame it on traffic, or low gas, or an adventurous mood, and no one will ask any questions because nobody pays any attention. The children will have studiously returned to bed, or otherwise fallen asleep in a quest to stay awake.

“Will I see you again?”

“No.”

“I love you,” Maria says, and Eliza, dressing, looks over her shoulder to drink her in one last time. Young, thin, warm, soft, bundled in a duvet and watching Eliza dress with hungry, dark eyes. 

She doesn’t answer. Just leaves. Closes the door quietly behind her. Leaves three hundred dollars folded under the mug Maria gave her in the kitchen. So close to Christmas, Alexander will never ask where it went - so long as Eliza writes down carefully that it was taken out _’For Gifts’_ on her list of daily expenses, he will never ask about it at all.

Her purse has makeup wipes and perfume and Eliza hides the evidence of her evening in the car, parked in an empty lot. And she drives home, leaves her cross-stitch bag by her chair in the living room, kisses her husband sleepily, and goes to bed. She will shower tomorrow - tonight she knocks her knees together, squirms her hips, feels the preserved slick of Maria’s mouth between her. Whatever itch it gives her that week will be worth it.

She will see Maria again. So soon as she grows desperate. So soon as Alexander texts her about a business trip or an overnight office stay or an impromptu trip with their oldest son. Maybe not at Maria’s home, not if James is there, but somewhere. A restaurant for dinner. Or the back of her car. Anything in between. She hates herself for it but she doesn’t hate herself enough to stop doing it, so her guilt doesn’t really mean shit. She rolls onto her side, lets two fingers slide between her legs, feels for the place where Maria has been. Considers bringing herself off again, then decides against it - the sweat will wash away the memory of a beautiful girl, dark and devoted to her, and besides which she isn’t really feeling it. If Alexander catches her, he will invite himself in, and she will have to pretend the wetness is arousal, which it isn’t and hasn’t been for a long time.

Instead she closes her eyes, and strokes her own hair and pretends the fingers carding through her hair are Maria’s, and drifts asleep, refuses to think of herself as lonely and pathetic and predatory, even though she is all of these things.


End file.
